Blind Leaving the Blind
by glassamilk
Summary: Denmark sits with too many thoughts on a dock he may or may not be welcome on.


Sitting on the edge of a salt-crusted dock, Denmark wonders aloud to an empty sky that probably isn't listening.

"D'ya remember," he asks, and wraps his fingers around the cool, smooth neck of a bottled beer, warmed by the palm of his hand. He turns it-once, twice-and takes a sip before continuing. "The time I fell out of the boat when we were fishin'?"

The sky does not answer, but the sea slips over his bare feet. It makes hardly a sound, a whisper, but it's enough for him and he leans back on his elbow to stare into the clouds and feel the cold wash over his toes. It seems that there should be sand at this end of the dock, but all he can feel is the tide and the mouthful of beer that he has yet to swallow. It's harder to take this time, and for why, he is not sure. The quiet, perhaps, but more likely, the lack of humor in it all; alcohol is no fun without fun to begin with.

"What about," he breathes, "th' time I broke Sweden's nose?" He pauses and lets his elbows bend a little more. He can't expect a reply; he's being far too vague. "It was over a bundle of skins. D'ya remember that? He was still little." A pause and the ocean licks at his ankles. "I think he might've cried." He relaxes his fingers and the bottle tips sideways, _clink_, and what is left for drinking is ignored and allowed to soak into the damp planks of the pier. "I think I might've cried too. Dunno. Kids, right?"

Denmark unlocks his elbows and falls onto his back completely. He feels hot, though the winter breeze clings to the sweat on his skin like the cigarette smoke from the bar sticks to his clothes, and somewhere, in the back of his mind, he hopes for the waves to get high enough to touch his bent knees. He wouldn't mind it; he has his jeans rolled up enough, and even if they were to get wet, he has nowhere important to be. And even if he did, they would be dry by that time. Part of him doesn't even want to be clothed. He wants to be naked in the water-he wants the salt to dry him out.

"Missin' the days where it was socially acceptable t'go without pants."

Footsteps.

"Is that right?"

He turns his head back. Scuffed, black shoes. He grins.

"Ya came."

Norway sighs; hooks his hands under Denmark's armpits and shoves him upright. "Ya called me from the docks this late. Figured ya were havin' an emergency."

Denmark can feel the heat from Norway's hands through his shirt and, despite the discomfort, leans against it. It's the good kind of warmth. Nothing like the drunken flush that he's been steadily working up to all night. "Nope. Just wanted t'see ya."

"Might as well've been an emergency, then." A sigh, a huff, and Norway unzips his coat. "Ya going ta tell me what it is you're doin' out on my harbor this late?"

"Same reason."

"Visitin'?"

"Yep."

"Strange way a' visitin', not going ta see the person you're lookin' for."

Denmark grins. "Who says it was you I was lookin' for?"

"Who else ya got to see here?"

Denmark sighs and thinks; drums his fingers against his knees. "Iceland."

"Iceland's at his own house." Norway slips off his coat and drops it over Denmark's thighs. "Y'know-where you're supposed ta be at five in the mornin'."

"You givin' me your coat?"

"Ya don't have one, do ya?"

"S'not gonna fit."

"Ya don't want it, then?"

Denmark does want it and he pulls it up to his chest. Beside him, Norway looks out over the boats in the harbor and breathes in the night air. He looks relaxed, Denmark thinks, but by now, he knows better, and he keeps his mouth clamped shut and his hands to himself.

"What are ya doin' here, Denmark?" He asks, finally. "S'late."

Denmark shrugs. "Didn't feel like drinkin' at my own place."

"Liar. Ya always like drinking in your own bars."

"I like your bars."

"Listen, you." Norway turns away from him and grabs up the empty beer bottle before it can roll into the water. "It's too late ta be havin' this conversation. Tell me what you're doin' here or go home."

Denmark lets his hands wander into the pockets of Norway's coat. He can feel a house key and the stub of a train ticket. "D'ya remember," he starts. "The time I fell outta the boat when we were fishin'?"

"You've done that more times ta remember. Be more specific."

A crumpled receipt in the other pocket. He knows that Norway knows what he's talking about. "When we were kids. The time it was snowin'."

"Mm."

"Y'remember?"

"Ya listenin'?"

"Yeah."

Norway sighs. "I remember."

"You 'n Sweden had t'pull me out, didn't ya?" Denmark exhales and watches his breath disappear over the water. He stops rummaging through Norway's pockets and just folds his hands into soft fleece.

"We did. Had ta dive in after ya." Norway plants his hands behind himself and leans back on his arms, letting his legs dangle beside Denmark's. "A shame ya were, bein' the eldest and still not havin' your sea legs."

"I had 'em."

"Just didn't feel like usin' them?"

"Probably." He looks over at Norway's shoes. "Y'should take yer shoes off. Yer gonna get 'em wet."

"Mm."

He watches Norway pull his knees in to unlace his shoes. The old leather is already wet; the little droplets of sea water reflect in the dim light of the single lamp at the end of the pier. "When I woke up, you 'n Sweden were cryin'."

Norway stiffens. "Mighta been."

"Said y'thought I was gonna die."

"Ya were blue in the face when Sweden pulled ya out." He pauses in taking off his shoes to flick Denmark's nose. "Now you're just red in the face. All fulla hot air."

Denmark laughs. He leans over and drops his head against Norway's shoulders; he smells like wine and fresh laundry. "When did ya stop worryin' about me so much?"

Norway's fingers find their way to the back of Denmark's neck and thread into the fine hairs there. "When we stopped havin' ta rely on ya."

"Mm."

"Y'want us to worry?"

"Nah. M'over it."

"Dumb question ta ask then."

"Probably."

There is a pause and Denmark just allows himself to feel Norway twist his hair.

"You've been thinkin' too much, haven't ya?" Norway asks and his hand stills. "That's why you're here?"

Norway's coat slips down into his lap and Denmark sighs. "My head hurts."

"Figures. Wanna get home?"

"Which home?"

"Your home."

"Not really." He slumps down a little further and turns his face into Norway's neck; breathes out there and counts the milliseconds it takes for the dampness to evaporate on his skin. "Ferries won't be runnin' for 'nother hour or so anyway. Can I go home with ya?"

"No."

Denmark groans. "It's too long t'wait. I'll die from the cold."

"Ya won't."

"Of boredom, then."

"Ya won't."

A breeze passes between them and Denmark doesn't shiver.

"Just lemme come over."

Norway repeats himself. "No."

"I'll sleep on th' couch."

"No, ya won't."

A frustrated grumble .

Norway's hand slides down Denmark's back and he pulls him in, just a bit, to rest closer. "Want me ta wait with ya?"

"Yeah."

"Don't like bein' alone much, do ya?"

"Nope."

Norway's head comes down to lay against the top of Denmark's, and through the bunched up fabric of the jacket between them, Denmark can feel him sigh. "Gonna have ta stop bein' such a baby someday, ya know."

"But not today, right?"

"Right."

"You really gonna wait with me 'til the ferry comes?"

"Nothin' much better ta do." His sentence breaks off into a yawn. "Don't believe me?"

Denmark shrugs with one shoulder. "Been left alone a few too many times."

"Don't turn this inta somethin' it's not." Norway elbows him into sitting upright again and Denmark's stomach lurches. "If ya want ta drown in self-pity, ya can do it by yourself."

Denmark laces their hands together and holds Norway in place, even though he makes no move to get up. "Don't go."

"M'not."

"Enough's enough, right?"

"Right."

"I think I'm going to throw up."

The first colors of daybreak come while Denmark empties his head into the sea, and neither of them dwell on the reasons why.


End file.
